STOP Early Journal Content on JSTOR, Free to Anyone in the World This article is one of nearly 500,000 scholarly works digitized and made freely available to everyone in the world byJSTOR. Known as the Early Journal Content, this set of works include research articles, news, letters, and other writings published in more than 200 of the oldest leading academic journals. The works date from the mid-seventeenth to the early twentieth centuries. We encourage people to read and share the Early Journal Content openly and to tell others that this resource exists. People may post this content online or redistribute in any way for non-commercial purposes. Read more about Early Journal Content at http://about.istor.org/participate-istor/individuals/early- journal-content . JSTOR is a digital library of academic journals, books, and primary source objects. JSTOR helps people discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content through a powerful research and teaching platform, and preserves this content for future generations. JSTOR is part of ITHAKA, a not-for-profit organization that also includes Ithaka S+R and Portico. For more information about JSTOR, please contact firstname.lastname@example.org. 153 AMERICAN ART JOURNAt. NiBLo's Garden, New York, June 1th, 1866. t>t L. Downing, Esq., President Musical Mutual Protective Union : Dear Sib: — ^I Lave received yoar favor of May 21st. There can be no possible mlsconBtrnction of llie Artiqlo to wliicli tlio Managers' Association objecla, liowevor exalted may bave been the mo- tives of your Society in Iraming it. It distinctly compels every musiciaii of your Union not to jjerform under any leader or witli any artist who does not derive a privilege of employment from you, and would have the etlect at tliis moment of obli.i'ing any manager, who engaged the ser- vices or any of your body, to part with iiis pres- ent leader and orchestra, an alternative which the Managers' Association respectfully declines. It also respectfully declines lo arbitrarily dic- tate the maxin/im or minlnmm amount which any artist is to rpcoive for his services. For the rest, witliout venturing to question the correctness of the very unUattering estimate which you, with such unequaled opportunities of judging, have expressed of the character of many members of the Musical Union of winch you are the President, and ot the motives which influence them in the practice of their art — which, I may observe, more than justifies the unfavorable view which the public have, taken of many of the re- cent proceedings of your Association — the Man- agers' Association cannot but feel, that had the fact occurred to your recollection that the lead- ing members of your body, by forsaking, when employed in the orchestra, often for many nights in the week the duties they had undertaken to discharge, and committing them to substitutes trom tl)e very class now so severely reprobated, encouraged and sanctioned for their own advan- tage all those evils to which you attribute the de- terioration of your profession, you would have spoken of brother artists wiiJi somewhat more forbearance and moderation. In closing our correspondence, which, as a matter of justice to both pariies, the Managers' Associotion deems it but proper to publish, per- mit uie to renew on my pait, and that of the As- sociation of which I am President, the expression of good teeling, with which 1 remain. Yours, very truly, W. Wheatlet, Fres't. Manageri^ Association. A DESCENDANT OF .T. SEBASTIAN BACH. A WRITING MEDIUM, pProm The Stage.) Toi0ottrs predrix does not suit our lively ftiends of the gay and fascinating capital of France. They prefer ioujours canard. The latest speci- men of this Parisian delicacy has just found its way hero, and it may not be wrong to serve It up to our readers. It is a musical canai-d, and rather " high," dating back at least two hundred years, and being of tlie period of the great J. S. Bach. We are almost provoked to call it a Musical-Bach duck, but any trifling with our canvas back friend would be protanation. Well, ihere is livin"- in Paris a descendant ot ths great Sebnstian, the author of the " well tempered clavichord. " He is elderly and respectable. For many years lie has been a teacher of music, devoting such spare time as that arduous profession permitted to anti- quarian pursuits. Amongst the curiosities which ho has accumulated is a strange old spinet, made out of oak, ornamented with much fine carving, tastefully gilded arabesques, intermingled with turquoises and gilded jf?e!(?-s de lys. 'Ihis instru- ment was picked up at a curiosity shop, the pro- prietor of which said that it had just come from Italy. To a ^enUemaa like Mr. Bach, who was both a musician and an antiquarian, it was ot course singularly interesting. He examined it very closely, and at length discovered the inscrip- tion, Bovia 1504— showuig where and when it was made, lie furthei- amused himself by playing upon it during the evening. At the usual hour lie retired to rest, highly sartsfled with his prize. Strange to say he had a dream. An elegantly dressed foreigner, of the period of the 16th cen- tury, appeared to him, and said that the Spinet now in M. Bach's possession was formerly his owa, having been presented to him, (the gentle- man of the land of dreams*, by his royal master and patron, Henri HI. He stated also, that in order to soothe the melancholy of this monarch, whose course of love did not run smooth, he had written a Saraband, with which to beguilp bis Majesty's hours of despondency. The King, too, was given to composition, and had written a song on the subject of his blighted hopes. The stran- ger thereupon,, with alarming alacrity, sat down to M. Bach's spinet, f^pd sang and played tioth pieces. It is not astonishing that M. Bach was awakened by the performance, but it is amazing tliat on opening his eyes the first thing that struck his gaze was the manuscript of these two very airs, written on the blank half of a sheet Qf music paper On which he had been engaged the day before in writing down one of his own compo- sitions. The courtly apparition had disappeared. More amazing still was the fact that the notes ot the manuscript were written like those now in use, but the cleft were diUerent. The words, it is stated, are in the style of Henri lU. As a matter of course, M. Bach was greatly excited, and proceeded at once to make inquiries as to the authenticity of the visitant's statements. In the course of time he discovered that the stranger was no other than the defunct and forgotten Baltazarini, a favorite court rausicisn of Henri 111. The identity being established, nothing remained to be accounted for but the mj'Stenous score. M. Bach was sorely perplexed, for he had not heard of spiritualism, and yet could not rationally account tor the document. He mentioned the matter to Iriends who were better posted, and about a month afterwards discovered that he was a writing medium. One day, alter a violent headache and a nervous trembling of the hand, he was seized with the thought that Baltazarini might, desu-e to cominunicate with him. He took a pencil, and held it on a sheet of paper. Imme- diately he became insensible, and his hand wrote a verse of lour lines, saying that the King had given the spinet to Baltazarini. The " copy" is somewhat obscure— as spirit writing usually is, and M. Bach appealed to Baltazarini for further particulars. Upon which the latter wrote: " Henri, my tnaster, who gave me the spinet you possess, had written a quatrain on a piece ol parchment, which he had nailed inside the case and sent to me. Some years afterwards, having to take a journey, and fearing— as I took the spinet with me to play on— that the parchment might be torn off and lost, I took, and, that I might not lose it, I put it into a little hiding place to the left of the keyboard, where it is still. " M. Bach now speaks tor himself: • "As at that time my spinet had been lent to the Retrospective Museum in the Palnce of Indus- try, I could not ascertain whether this was true or not. But as soon as the spinet was brought back to me, my son and I seai-ched caretiilly tor this parchment, but could see nothing of it. At last, having taken it almost to pieces, wo found a niche under the hammers so small that we couhl not get at it without taking out several of them ; and there, hidden under the dust and cobwebs of three hundred years, we found a piece of parchment, blackened by time, .thirty centi- metres long, seven and a half wide, on which, when we had cleaned it, we found the verse alluded to, and runmng thus: " 'Moy le Roy Henry trois ootroya oette cspuiette, A Baltaraziui, men gay musicien, Mais sis dit mal sone, on bleu [ma] moult. simplette, Lors,- pour mon souvenir dans I'estuy garde bien.' " All this would be very singular if it had not occurred a thousand times before, and vei-y ludi- crous if M. Bach were not a gentlemen of nearly scventyyears, whohasbornethebestotcharacters, and Tvhose wcf], even now, is respected. As tfe is, we are amused to see our Parisian friends;, who ridiculed us severely for our "manifesta- tions," lending themselves so i-eadily to a most transparent " sell." They may rest assured thafc- the nest tlimg to be sold is the spinet. — -^ > I * I < Among the other. innrvcllonB things tliey promise., for the Paris Exhibition, is a photographic nin-" chine that talces likenesses in all culurs but green,' a color which still remains obstinate to the in^ main.s obslinate'to the invcntar's rogchrches. Tlio Hasha of Egypt' has appropriated .€40,000 for th« mere fitting up of his portion of the building. Turkey >Yill sen"! on the minaret of her niosquCj a mausolojitm, apd a model of a Turkish house, with its diyiins, biitji.j/jtc., he. Persia will construct, on the Cimnip de Mars, kiosques, silk-worm nurse-- rie.<«, opium niaiiufactorics, &c., a pavilioA, with a model pi the Shah's throne, and copies of pictures, rich carpets, furniture, &o., which adorn the im-- pcrial residence, andtlie fountains that 0urrouud it. NEW BOOKS. Mbmoibs of a GooD-POB-NoTHiN'o,-^From thet (Jennan of Joseph Von Eichendoi-fl', by CHARLEa Godfrey Leland. With Vignettes by B. B. Bensell. New York: Leypoldt & Holt. The story of a Good-for-Nothing seems to par- lake of more of the spirittial dolce farniente than is common to that class of German romance, which fact may rest rather with the ^Irit of tho translation than the real sentiment of the book ifr^ self. Still, there is sufficient of materialism in its tone to claim fbr it the title ot a fiiithfiil transla^ tion. . The herd of the book is an idle, good-tempered, dreamy, and romantic fellow, lovtag,, instinctively, music and poetry J free from actual vice, faithful In his nature, careless of the future, a very waif of humanity, and like a waif,- floating into strange places. ' He is the most involuntary hero of ro- mances, and the actor in strange courts, all of which fell in his way, because he was loitering along any road which presented itself, and wait- ing for anything that might happen. The one desire of his heart is to reach Italy, where food is to be had for the gathering, and the pleasantest lodging is the open air. Nothing to pay, and no work to do, seem to have been the goal of the Good-fbr-Nothirig's ambition. All the chances and the changes of his life were wrought by tho mighty talisman of love— a love which was called to life by romance, nurtured in a mistake anil ends in a surprise and happiness. The incidents are those of a romance, and the characters such as should people it, vague and indeflnlte, but parts of the poetic woof of which it is composed. It is certainly a sunny book, glittering aiid in- teresting, and addresses itself to that Bohemian principle iii every poetic nature, which developes itself in the yearning to be free Irom the restraints and forms of civilization, and the social tyranny which springs up in all large communities- a feeling which is undefined and rai'ely realized, but which all ofushaVe felt at some early period of our existence.' The philosophy of the Good-tbr- nothing may be gathered fl-om the following lines, which seem to spring to the lips as a perpetual -' consolation, whenever chance throws him upon the world, aimless, though not hopeless: " God, when on man great love bestowing, Over the wide world bids him rove, Unto him all his marvels showing In stream and field and hilland grove. " The lazy who at honie are lying Are cheered not by morn's early red. Know naught save nursing-children crying, ■ And cure and fear and thoughts of bread. AMMICAN ART JOURNAL. 153 " The streamlets from the hills are springing, The lark pipes high his merry note ; Why should not I with them go singmg From healthy breast and hearty throat,? ■" Let God rlUe all things, With the weather, The brook and lark and field and tree ; The heaVen and eai'th he'll keep togdthot. And turn my luck to the best for me ! We quote a , Chapter trom this pleasant book, Which will not only portray a character of, the hero, but will show the agreeable style of the work: ' ; Close by the Caatle-^den, d^id 'bnlyS^parated ft'oiu it by a high wall, ran the g^eat turnpike. Just there a very neat little toll-house with a retl- tiled roof had been built, behind which lay a little ilower-ganlen with d tiue hedge, which opened, however, through a breach iu tne castle-wall, into the shadiest and tnost retired portion of ita grounds. One day there was a death— that of the toll- man, who had lived for a long time in this plea- sant public tei-mitage— and early the next morn- ing I was wakened ttom my sleep by the secre- tary of the castle, and summonecl by him to appear without delay before the squire, lie was a ilroll dog, this same secretary— one of the kind who thiiik that a good fright is an excellent joke; and he accordingly enjoyed very much my alarm at being called m such a manner; In fact, he was in such an ecstacy of joy at my grave face tbat I, too, soon forgot my fright, and followed him atftall speed, he meanwhile snatching at a flower or fencing at the wind with his slender cane. As I entered the offlce, in the early dawn, there sat the squire behind an enormous inkstand and piles of papers and books, looking trom his mighty wig like an owl from its nest. And the instant I entered he hooted aloud at me, in a very owly tone indeed, "Whoo— whoo — whoo — are jou? WhoO— whoo— at's yom- name. Whoo— whoo— at's your^get- Whoo— did yoo— ou come from I Can yoo— 6u write and lead and cipher?" flapping his elbow sometimes, when the vilioo had been uncommonly well done, and shrugging up his shoulders until he seemed going more and more into owldom, without the faintest hope of return. As I readily proved that I was well accom- plished in the lore of which he booted, he chuckled as if well pleased— or, as.it struck me, as if I had given him a fat mouse— and proceeded to inform ine, in the tone peculiar to benevolent owls, that the gracious gentry of the castle had; in consid- eration of my excellent conduct and many merits, determined to. bestow on me the situation of toll- taker, just become vacant-. Iieviewed in haste my accomplishments and education as ho spoke, and could not really deny that the squire was in the right And so, before " 1 knew it-, I had an office undor government and had become a receiver of taxes. . I at once entered my new dwelling, and was sooa comfortably established in it. To my great joy, I found a number of useful and ornamental articles which the late toll-man had left lo his successor: among the rest, a splendid scarlet dressing-robe, wit I large yellow rings and spots, green slippers, a pvetty smoking-cap, and sundry pipeg^yitU long stems. AU these tine things I had coveted ior many a day, even before I left home, when I saw our village pastor sitting in state with similar equipments. It was an easy life, this of taking toll, and I enjoyed it. Nothing to do but sit all day on a bench betbre my house, arrayed in dressing-robe and cap, and smoke my predecessor's pipe, blow- ing blue clouds, and seeing how the people rode or walked past to and fro. From the very depths of my soul did I, however, wish that just a few people from our village— some of the ro seals who prophesied that I would never in all my life come to anything — would travel by my little establish- ment and see me in thiseait of thing— particular reference being made at the end of my wish tothe ted dressing-gown; tot it there was any one article 01 taith to which I adheted with all my heart and soul, It was to the belief that the garment in ques- tion was the very perfection of all elegance and style. So 1 sat there, and thought of many things— how hai-d it is to get a start in the world, and how much better the more aristocratic style of lite, with its easy work, was than any other— and linally determined that I would cease travel- ing, and save up my money like other folks, so as to become something great at last. But, with all this, morning and evening I thought continually on the beautiful lady. I pulled up and threw away the potatoes which I found growing in my little garden, planting in theit' place the choicest ffowers, at which the stately castle-porter with the princely nose (who since 1 was toll-taker had become my most inti- mate friend and daily visitor) shook his head and intimated that my sudden good fortune had turned my brain. But I never let that disturb me ; for just then among the voices iu the park I thought I heard that of the fair lady. After this, I maae every day as choice a bouquet as I could, and, when it was dark, laid it on a stone table, where she was wont to go, in a retired thicket; and every evening, when I brought fresh Uowei's, those of yesterday were gone I One evening the people of the castle had ridden away, hunting. The sun was setting, coveting all tiie land with gleaming, quivering light; the Danube wound like a serpent of pure gold, and fire, far, far away, and from' every hill into the deep distance rang the songs and shouts of the vine-dressei-s. I sat with the pottet on the bench betore my house, and reveled in the mild ait as the merry daylight slowly grew dim and the echoes died away. Then all at once the horns of the re- turning huntsmen were heard, as they answered one another trom hill to hill. I ifelt pleased to my very heart, and cried out in a rapture, "Ah, that's the business for me, that noble hunting 1 " But the porter calmly knocked oat the ashes from his pipe, andiSaid, " That's what yow think, is it? Well, I've been through all that work, and poor wotk it is. One doesn't earn the value of the soles which he wears out; and as for the colds and coughs one gets from wet feet " I do not know how it was, but this answer cast me into such a rage that I fairly trembled. All at once the whole fellow, with his bore of a doak, and everlasting feet, and snufl' and'turkey-cock nose, appeared intolerable. I caught him, as if beside myself, by the breast, and said, "Now, porter, pack away with you; go home, or -I'll thrash you like the deuce 1 " Hearing this, the porter suddenly recurred to his old idea that I was literally insane. He looked at me seriously, but with secret fear, and, without speaking a word, went away with long strides to the castle, ever and anon turning and shaking his head significantly, until he reached home, where he reported that I had really gone mad. I, however, only bm-st out laughing, and was glad to have got rid of this heavy sage— the more so as it was just the hour when 1 was ac- customed to make my bouquet, and lay it in the tjvcket. So I sprang quickly over the wall, and was flying toward the stone table, when 1 sud- denly heard the ti-ead of a horse near by. There was no escape for me, as I saw my fair lady in a green hunting-dress, with nodding feathers iu her hat, riding slowly, and apparently in a deep reve- rie, up the avenue. I could not stir; and it seemed to me as though I saw oefore me that most beautiful of women, the fair Magelona, of whom I had read in.old books at home, as she had even so appeai-ed under high trees, amid the rin^ of hunting-horns ever sounding nearer and nearer, and in the changing lights of early eve. She, however, was almost alarmed as she be- held me, and unconsciously checked her horse; while I was like one intoxicated with doubt, heart-beating, and wild joy. But as I observed that she bore on her bosom theijouquet of yester- day, I could no longer restrain myselt; and said, very confusedly, "Beautiful lady— your ladyship — please to take these ilowers too from me, and all in my garden, and all that I have 1 Oh, if I could only go through tire and water tbt you 1 " She looked at me, as I first spoke, steadily, al-" " most augrily, so that her eyes thrilled me to the very heart; but, as I went ou, her glance sunk to the ground. Suddenly the sound of huutsiiien approaching us was heard, and, catching the Uowers from my hand, she disappeared, without speaking a word, through the farther end of the avenuei After that evening) I louud nO loUgcr rest oi? repose. Feeling of uneasiness oppiessed me, yet mingled with indefinable pleasant hopes, as if spring were coming, so that I could not tell whe- ther some great good fortune was fluttering to-* wards me, or what extraordinary event -it was which hung over me. At this time my vexatious ciphering and toll-house accounts bothered mS sadly; so that when the sunshine through the chestnut-leaves fell green-golden through the window on my book, while adding up my columns from top to bottom and back again, strange thoughts passed through my mind, and I oilen became so confused that I actually could not count three. For the figure 8 always seemed to me to be my plump, black-eyed, and tightly-cor- seted little dame; and the evil 7 was like a guide- post etemafiy pointing backwm-ds — or the gallowsj The 9, however, madeltself merriest at my expense, often standing, ere I was aware, like a 6 on its head; while 2 looked on like a note of interroga- tion, asking, " What will become of me at last, my poor cipher? Without Aer, that slender One and all, you would be torever nothing I " Even sitting out before the door ceased to be a comfort to me. To be more at my ease, i placed a footstool there, and, after mending a large unv btella which the late toll-nlan had left, opened it like a Chinese tent to protect me trom the sunj But it was a'l in vain. I bored myself until I thought my legs were growing longer for want of something else to do, and that my nose was push- ing out lor very weariness, as I gazed on it for hours. ■ ' And when, many a tmie before the break of day, an extra-post-catriage came driving by, and I went out half asleep into the cool ait, and perhaps some pretty little face peeped out, ot which the sparkling eyes only were visible in the dim light, looking eai-nestly at me and bidding me good morning— when the cocks crew gayiy from afar over the sotUy-waving corn-fields, and between the red stripes of morning in the east there swept a lark too early aroused Itom his nest, and the postilion, as he drove away, blew and blew on his horn— why, then I stood at my wiii' dow, gazing after the wagon, and it seemed to me that I too must go attcr it, forth into the wide, wide world 1 I still continued to leave my boquets every eve- ning on the stone table. But— there was the sorrow I-^no living soul troubled itsell about the matter after that evening; and when I in the morning looked at my little ofl'ering, there lay the Uowers, gazing at mo with their hanging, fad- ing eyes covered with dew, as though they wept for grief. This troubled me, and I made no mote boquets. Weeds might grow m my gai-den now if they would, and the flowera bloomed sadly and alone till the wind scattered their leaves. All was quite as weedy and seedy in my heart. While I had been gardener's boy, none of the castle-tolk had ever talked to me; and after I be- came toll-man I spoke as little with them— always excepting my lute reserved Iriend the stately por- ter, who said nothing at all; so that I knew very little of my lords and ladies. A servant either knows everything or nothiug. In this critical time of ignorance, weed?, and griet; it happened one evening, as I lay in the great window of my little home, looking wearily up at the slcy, that the waiting-maid of the castle came trlppin"' along. She came up as she saw me, and stood by the window. "My lord returned yesterday from his journey," said she, in a hutry. "In- deed 1 " I replica, quite unconscious, in the depth of my ignorance, that he had been gone for wocivs; "then out young luly his daughtet must be very 154 AMEUICAN AlJT JOURNAL glad." The girl looked at me wUh a sly glance, 80 that I wondered what I had said particularly stupid. ' ' Pshaw I why, the child actually knows nothing at all I " she cried, with a shrug of her little shouldera. "W<sll," she continued, "tl'.ls evening there Is to be a ball at the castle in honor of mv ford's teturt, alid a masquerade. My lady will "be masked, too, as a gardener-girl; do you mind that innocence?— I Say, as a gardener's girl! Now, my lady happens to have noticed that you have very line llowers in your garden ("That is more than I have noticed myself, lately," thought I, " considering the state of the weeds, ") and ttS my lady wants flowers iresh IVom thbe bed— mind that, too, innocence 1— why, you are to bring her some, and this eveniag at that, afler dark, and you're to wait in the castle-garden un- der the great pear-tree, and she will come and get them." I was bewildered with joy at this news, and, in my delight, made but one jump from the window at the pretty waiting-maid. "Oh, what a nasty old night-gown 1 " she Cried, as 1 appeared at flill length in ftill blaze of ^ Scarlet with yellow rings. That hit hard; and, to show her that I was not altogether slow in mat- tere of gallantry, I chased her right and left to get a kiss. But, as the deuce would hove It, the aregsing-robe which was much too long for me, caught under my feet, and I fell on the ground. As I picked myself up, hke one who has stumbled in running a sack-race, I saw the pretty waiting- maid vanishing among the trees, and heard her laughing merrily at my mishap, as if she herself could hardly keep her feet And now I had something to think of, and to gladden my heart. She did remember me and my llowers, after all I I ron into my g^irden, and, tearing up the weeds in hasce, threw them high in the air and fiir awoy, as though I were rooting up and destroying a sorrow with every one. The roses again grew ruddy like her mouth, the heayenly-blue convolvulus was like her eyes, and the show-white lily, with its musing, melancholy, drooping head, was all like lier; and I placed the whole si'slerhood caretliUy in a basket. It was a lovely, silent evening, witliout a cloud. Here and there a star began to gleam in the sky; over the moadowSi borne on the fragrant breeze, came the rush of the Danube; and all around the wild birds sang merrily. Ah I I was so happy 1 AS night came on, 1 took my basket on my arm and went towards the great garden. The flowers lay so beautifully in their little nest, and seemed so patient and gentle in their red, blue, and white freshness and fragrance, that my heart expanded with them as I peeped in. Full of glad thoughts, 1 went on in the moon- light, passed the dainty thickets and summer- houses, and over the silent, neatly-sanded walks, and trim little white bridges, under which, sleep- ing as they floated in the grotesque shadows, sat the stately swans. The great pear-tree I found readily enough ; for it was the same under which, when gardener's boy, I had dreamed away so many sultry afternoons. Now it was so dark and lonely 1 Only a high aspen trembled incessantly, uiid whispered with its silver leaves. Sometimes the swell ot music rose tVom the castle; and now and then in the garden voices were hoard which came jiear me, und.then, step by step, died away, till all was again silent. How my heart beat I licit as tremulous; and guilty as though I were there to steal. Long I stood leaning on the tree, lurking and listening on every side; but still no one came, and I could bear the suspense no more. I must do some- thing; so I hung my basket quickly on my ai^, and climbed the pear-tree, to breathe, higher up, Iresher an*. For the lirst time the music now sounded dis- tinctly, as it swept over the tops .of the ti-ees. I could see all the garden, and look directly into the brilliantly-lighted castle-hall. There the chandeliers tm-iied in the breeze, like wi'caths of stars; innumerable gentlemen and ladies crowded •and whu-lcd in the dance, and mingled gayly. ever disappearing amid each other, -while many came to the windows and looked out on the night. Before the house were the green banks, the llow- ering shrubs, and the trees— all gilded by the many lights; while the flowers and birds seemed to stare as it awakened from thew sleep. And farther on, around and behind all, lay the garden, buried in deepest, darkest shade. " There she dances," thought 1, alone up in the tree, "arid has doubtless long since forgot you and your flowers. All is so merry, and no living soul troubles himself about you. Every one has his little corner of the earth to himself— his warm stove, his cup of cofl'ee, his wife, and his glass of wine in the evening— and is well contented with it all. Even the porter, there, is satisfied in his long dress; But nothing goes right with you. It's just as if you came a little too late overy- where, and as if the whole workl took no account of you." " * ^ While I philosophized thus, I heard all at once something rustling below me in the grass. Two sweet voices conversing closely, and in subdued tones, together. Soon the twigs in the shrubbery parted, and from between them came forth the wee little face of the waiting-maid, looking to every side among the leaves, while the moonlight shone di- rectly on her shrewd eyes as she peeped around. An instant after, and the gardener-girl- just as the waiting-maid had described her— stepped out \. from among the trees. My heart beat as il it would break. She, however, wore a mask, and seemed to look around as if bewildered. Some- how it struck me that she did not seem so slender and graceful as usual. At last she came close to the tree, and removed her mask— Why, it was the elder of tho two ladies, the plump, black-eyed one I How glad I was, as I recovered from my first surprise, that I was up there in safety 1 "How, in all the world," thought I, "does she come here? 'Faith, if the dear, beaulitUl young count- ess were to step in jUst this minute for her flow- ers, there would be a nice story I " But I felt, on the whole, as if I could weep with vexation at the whole afl'air. Meanwliile, the masked gardener-girl below began to speak: " It is so sufibcating and warm there in the hall 1 I must cool myself a little in the delicious open air." Therewith she fanned herself" with her mask, and blew away the air. I could see by the bright moonlight that her plump neck seemed to fairly swell as she crimsoned with vexation. The chambermaid sought, meanwhile, under every hedge and bush, as though bunting for pins. " I wanted fresh flowers so much for my char- acter," continued the "gardener-girl." " Where on earth can he be hiding? .(Here the waiting- maid giggled.) "Did you say anything, Kosette?" exclaimed the mask, rather sharply. " I say," was the reply, with a very devoted air, "what I always ?Mve said— that the whole toll-man from head to foot was, is, and always will bo a lout. Pshaw ! he's lying asleep now somewh'ere under a bush 1 " I felt a tlirilling, prickling sensation, as of a million tmy spurs, .goading me down to rescue my reputation from this horrible charge, when all at once a thundering sound ol drums, orchestral music, and shouts rose from tlie castle, and the lady exclaimed, with vexation, " There 1 they, are abovt to cheer my lorcl. Come, or we shall be missed I " Saying this, she clapped on her mask and ran angrily towards the castle. The trees seemed to point their long and branching fingers after her as if with jeera, the boughs of shrubbery were lifted in the breeze like sneering noses above her head, while the moon- light played quickly ai'ound her full waist as if glidfaig over the key-board of a piano; and so she made her exit, as I have often seen it done by pi-ima donnas on the stage, amid a tinalroar of trumpets and drums. Bud I, up in my tree there, could not determine exactly what had happened to me, and so kept 1 tuy glance fixed immovably upon the eastle;'ibr a row of tall flambqaux upon the broad steps before It cast a strange gleam over the glittering windows and tar into the garden. Tliey were lighted just as the servants of the h'ouseliold came to play a serenade to their lord. Among them, stately and gloriously arrayed, as prime minister, stood the porter at a music-desk, blowing away with vigor and industry on a bassoon. As I sat myself more comtbrtably to listen to the beautlM serenade, I saw the folding-gates lu the balcony thrown open, and between them ap». peared a tall and stately gentleman, in unitbrm and with many glittering orders, Suppoi-ting orl one arm — the beautiful ybung lady, all in white, like a lily in the. night, or the moun sweeping over a cloudless sky, I could not turn my eyes from the spot, ami garden, tbrest, and field seemed tovanish as sho stood there, tall and slender and beautiful, among the gleaming torches, at one time speaking con- fidingly to the officer, and at aiiother nodding amiably to the musicians. The people down below were wild with joy, and I too, at last, yielding to the excitement, cried "JHMn-aA/", with tliem, and with all my might. But after they had disappeared, and one torch after another was extinguished before" the castle,' and the music-desks were cleared away, little by little the garden became dark as before, and the rustling of the trees in the nightrwind was again a constant solitary round,— <Ae» all seemed plain tome, and it fell at once like Ice on my heart) that it was the aunt alone who sent for my Bow- eis, that the beautiful young lady was betrothed or married to the handsome nobleman, and that I myself was a fooll It all plunged me into an abyss of dark revery. I rolled myself like a hedgehog against the sharp points ot my own thoughts, while the music of the dance sounded fitfully and at longer intervals from the castle, and clouds swept one by one over the dark gardens. And so I sat, like an owl, amid the ruins of my happiness, all through tho lonelynight. ,, • ,,; The cool morning air at last woke me teoiw my dreams. How astonished I was as I looked aronnd! Music and dancing had long since ceased: while in the castle and all about it, on the broad turf, and among the stone steps and pillars, all was so silent, cool, and calm ; — only the fountain before the gate prattled merrily as it ran oh. Here and there, on the twigs near me, the birds were waking, shaking their plumes and looking with wonder at their new treelellow, while gayly-sweeping morning sun-r.ays fell across the garden upon my breast. Then I sat straight up in my tree, and looked tbr the first time over the country,' to where a sail here and there, fai-, far on tho Danube, shono white between the vineyards, or where the aS yet empty highways tlirew themselves out like bridges in the shinmg land, along over hill and dale. - I know not how it was, but all at once my old longiii" to wander suddenly seized on itie,—- all the old sadness and joy and strange hope. And at once with it there fell into my soul the thought that the fair lady lay slumbering m th^ castle, among flowera and under silken canopies, and that an angel sat by her in the early morning stillness. "Nol no!" 1 cried, "I must away hence, and: ever away, as tar as the heaveii is blue I" With that, strange, wild boy that I was, I threw my basket high in the air; and it was right pleasant to see now the flowers rained down between the branches and lay in many colors on the turfi, Then I quickly descended, and ran to my house, where I long lingered, gazing on tlie places where I had seen herj" or where I had lain in the shade and mused over what I had seen. Every thing in my house was unchanged trom the day before. My garden was plundered and waste, while in the room the great account-book lay wide open, and-on the wall my long-forgotten fiddle hung covered with dust. A sunbeam from the opposite window fell gleaming on the strings, B '^*x!t75s7??iw5^'^«r^^ AMERICAN ART JOURNA!!. 155 and seemed to awake a pl>?rl^^><:h reechoed In my heart. "Yes," I cried, "come here, my trusty friend I Om- kingdom is not ot this world!" . „ 1, So I took down the fiddle from the wall, let account-book, dressing-robe, slippers, pipes, and umbrel a lie, and wandered, poor as I had come, from my house, for away upon the sunny roads. I often looked behind me, with strangely- minsled feelings of sorrow, changing with Joy as of a bkd flying U-om his cage. And, havin| gone a good distance, I took out my fiddle ^nd sang in the open air: — ; " Let God rale all things, with the, weather,. The brook and lark and field and tree ; The lieaveus and earth he'll keep together, Aud turn my luck to the best for me !" The castle, the garden, and the distant towers of Vienna had disappeared behind me in the purple morning light; "over my head countless larks were revelling high in the air; and so, be- tween green hills and plessant towns and ham- lets, I went onwaW to Italy. FOREIGN LITERARY INTELLIQENCB. The term " masterly inactivity," ascribed to John C. Calhoun, originated witli Sir James Mackintosh. "God tempers the wind to the_ shorn lamb," which everybody, who did not sup-' pose it was in the Bible, credited to Sterne, was stolen by him from George Herbert, who trans- lated it from the Prencli of Henry Estienne, "Dieii mesurele wM dla hrebis tondue." "In the midst of life we are in death "has been quoted even by divines as a scriptural phrase, whereas it is only to be found in the Book of Common Prayer. " The cups that cheer but not inebriate" was" conveyed by Cowper from Bishop Berkley, in his " Siris," WoddswortU'S "The child is father of the man," is traced frOm him to Milton, and from Milton to Sir Thomas Moore. "Like angel's visits, few and far be- tween." is the offspring of Hood; it is not Thomas Campbell's original thought. Old John Norris (1658) originated it, and after him Robert Blair, as late as 1746. "There's a gudetime coming," is Scott's phrase in " Rob Roy ; " and the " almighty dollar " is Washington Irving's happy hit. We often hear quoted the line, " When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war," and its origin is miuch discussed. It is by the old English poet, Nat Lee, and occurs in his play of " The Rival Qneens." The correct reading; however, is, " When Greeks joyu'd Greeks, tlien was the tug pf^war." The great work of electrotyping the Bible in Arabic is now going on in New York. It is de- signed for circulation among 120,000,000 of peo- ple, and is the greatest work of the kind ever undertaken. More than thirty years ago it was found by Er. Eli Smith and Mr. H. Hall<)ck, then in Smyrna, diat no font of type, in whicli Arabic books were then i>rinted, suited the extremely fastidious taste of Arabs and Turks, whose own manuscripts were marvels of beauty and sym- metry. Dr. Smith •«ha^ng prpvidentjajly ob- tained several of the most perfectly finished pf those manuscripts, a quite successful attempt was made by Mr. Hallock to prepare type which should well compare with the beauty of the manuscript. But hot satisfied with what was then done, Mr. Hallock, for the past thirty years, has been seeking a higlier degree of perfection. He has at length, by great mechanical skill and unfaltering perseverance, produced fonts of type so symmetrical and perfect as completely to sat- isfy the tastes of the Arabs and Turks, whose language and manuscripts are among the richest, most beautiful and widely circulated on the globe. The latest Roman papers record the death of Cardinal Resti, librarian of tlie Vatican. He was more than usually liberal in showing the curious and invaluable manuscripts of tlie Vatican, and permitting them to be collated and transcribed ; but so zealous did he watch over these precious trusts that no one was mutilated during his guardianship. - Guizot's 8tli volume of Shakspeare has reached its 6th edition.-and Victor Hugo's " Travailleurs de la Mer" is having an immense sale all over the world. The English papers describe the Rev. William Selwyn's "Waterloo, a Song of Jubilee," as " one of the best poeniaof the day," and say tliat -" the ^account of the batjle is so ^graphically give% that it would as ar'prose Worhj take a stand by Sibourne, Mnflling, and Other writers." Such descriptions of battles must always be diffi- cult, and only a first class genius, like Homer, can give life to lists and movements of regiments and battalions. . Hitherto we have had to depend on prose descriptions for the minutise of the bat- tle of Waterloo, and upon Byfon's verse for the ■poetry and the glory. The French Academy of Sciences have recently come in possession of a very valuable work, being nothing less than D'Alembert's "Memoiro of Lagrange," in eight vobimes, given by him to (Jondorcet. It next passed into the hands of Blot, who gave it to Bottr, Professor of L'Ecole Polyteclmique, who recently dying, sent it to the Academy of Sciences. It is the most curious and valuable in their collection. Byron's "Don Juan," recently translated into German by Gildemeister, is said to be a most perfect rendering of a great work fromone mod- ern language to another, as admirable, in its way, as Coleridge's version of Schiller's "Pio- colomini." The valuable private library of Isaac Taylor, the author of the " Natural History of Enthusi- asm," has been sold at auction in London. It contained the principal works of the Fathers of the Church, and a great variety of theological and classical works. Herr Grosse, a Berlin publisher, has been sentenced to a inonth's imprisonment for insult- ing the French Emperor, in a novel published by him, entitled " Louis Napoleon, or the Struggle between Destiny and the Imperial Crown. Shakspeare is being translated into Hindo- stanee and published at Bombay. M. Theophde Gautier's daughter, Judith, trans- lates from the Chine-se, writes criticisms on art, and has lately, married M. CatuUe Mendes, a promising young French poet. M. Emile Augier is quite happy over the fact that five thousand copies of his new comedy, "La Contagion," sold on the day of publication. Jeff Davis, a few days ago, on being applied to by a photographist, declined to allow his pic- ture to be taken, because he had changed so that his old friends would not know him. On the contrary,' the artist, who has known him for a long time, said he did not think ho hacl changed very greatly in his appearance. His voice was a very little weak, but that he did not propose to take. Mrs. Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie is now living in London. Her sympathies went with the South, by the def .-at of which it is said her husband lost all his propert.v. Mrs. Kitchie has been spending some time in Italy, but came to London with the resolute purpose of supporting herself by her pen. Her residence is in Kensington, nor. far from Thackeray's late home, in a quiet, healthful neigh- borhood, full of literary associations. She has been a great sufferer physically, but, in spite of this, she wonderfully retains her youth and beauty. She is very hard to work upon her lite- rary projects. Young Dumas has written a new book called " Clemcnceau's Case, an Accused Man's Memoir" A newspaper wished to publish it in fragments, and offered an immense sum for the privilege. Dumas refused, on the ground that the stOry was not a. proper one for family circulation. M. de la Chatre has taken the pains to publish seven octavo volumes and more are promised, under the frightful title, "The History of the Popes; Crimes, Murders, Poisonings, Parricides, Adulteries, and Incests of the Roman Pontiffs, from the time of St. Peter down to our own day." Mr. W. H. Russell, the celebrated Times corres' pondent, is writing a " History of the American War." • A Summer LnxuRY.— The latest novelty in Lon» don is the Zephyrion or Table Punka. The "Punka," it will he reuiembcred, wm iutroduced into this country by Mr, Stuart, at'Wallnck's old theatre. It economizes labor, and very simply and very simply and effectually ventilates the Warmest place of amusement. The "Zephyrion" consists of a small round box on a stand. 'J"o this a fan is fixed, and the machinery having been wound up with a key, the fan comn'iences its action, waving backward and. forward with a slow or rapid move* ment, according as it is registered, it can be placed upon the table beside the reader, writer, or worker, and will undoubtedly be a favorite in warm climates. Any fan can be attached. SKETCH OP VICTOR MASSE, THE COM- POSER. The Opera Comique, Which has not been for- tunate ot late years, has obtained a decided suc- cess with M. Victor- MassA's " Hot' d'Aliza," al. though the "book" is so entirely uilsuited with the stage, .it was thought for some nights the opera would prove still-born. As every one of your readers is familiar with M. do Lamartine'a work on Which the " book" is founded, it would be fatiguing to analyse it. They may find more interest in a brief sketch of the composer who, I believe, is destined to attain very high rank iu his art. Felix Marie Masse was born at Lorient. He did not receive the name Victor at baptism, but gave it to himself as likely to tell well on the play-bills. WheH he was nine years old ho was admitted to the School of Choron, one of the most celebrated music masters seen io France this halfcetftury. Hero ho remained until Choran's death, when he entered the Con- servatory, joining, Zimmerman's piano class. Ho carried off the first prize in it, and his master, see- ing the promise he gave of musical talents, court, seled Inm to study harmony and counterpoint. • He did so, and in the course of a short time be- came a pupil of Halovy. In 1845 he wrote tho music of the cantata " Le Renegat," and won the grand prize, .which secured him a threo years' residence at" Rome, at the expense of the French Government. Ho secured, I scarcely know how — the favor of M. Perrin, tho ;naniv- ger of the Opera Comique. As he is a brilliant talker, especially abouf his art, he probably se- cured the manager's favor by it as well as by his master's patronage. At all events upon his re- turn from Rome, M. Perrin told him he would play any opera comique he might write. He wrote " La Chanteuse VoiBo (which has been repeatedly played in New Orlertns) and it was brought out at the Opera Comique in 1851. Tho success was immense; It became instantly pop- ular, and the composer's name was on every tongue coupled with vaticinations as flattering as those of the witches who met Macbeth. Tho following year he gave "Galathee," which was as popular as his first opera ; and the same year (1852) he brought out " Les Noces de Jeannette," which was still more successful than its predecessors. There seemed to be no hight of musical art which the young composer might notliope to scale — then came a turn of tide — he ^ struggled in vain to command success. 'I'ho public turned its back on him, though he gave " La Fiancee du Diable," (1854) "Miss Fouvetle"